


True Identity

by Resoan



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post Dragon Age Inquisition, SPOILERS ABOUND
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 06:24:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2762957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resoan/pseuds/Resoan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Corypheus's defeat, Velahari Lavellan feels aimless, as though living without a purpose or goal in life. She leaves the Inquisition, searching for more, and what she discovers blows everything she ever believed away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True Identity

**Author's Note:**

> I’ll have more after the body of the story, though I will only say that Nadelas (the OC) is a syncopated form of Nadabelas - which means inevitable sorrow in elven. I also had difficulty finding a stopping place for this, so I apologize if the ending leaves something to be desired. I might post a follow-up, though I have no real ideas for one at the moment. It is set post-game, so there are tons of spoilers!

The ruins were utterly silent and still when Velahari stepped over a slightly-raised portion of what had likely once been a stone boundary, separating the inner portion of the shrine from where the masses dwelled and lingered, eagerly awaiting whatever deity was worshipped there. The space hummed with latent magical energy, however, and Velahari was unsurprised to see a brazier for Veilfire illumined by moonlight that managed to filter in through cracks in the vaulted stone ceiling overhead. The pull of her own magic thrummed at her fingertips, just under her skin, and the flat of her palm skimmed over a nearby wall, lips pursing thoughtfully.

The statues of the elven gods had been worn away: cracked from time and lack of care, though massive jowls of dragons hung high on the walls as well. Morrigan had informed her that many such elven temples further north had ended up being converted by Tevinter forces after the fall of the elves, and this was such a one. The ancient magister priests had purposefully defaced some of the larger elven statues in sacred, mysterious rites, though it was likely only to appease, and not for any practical purpose.

Her hand pulled away from the wall and slipped back down to her side, her breath slightly visible – even so far north winter was coming, and she was grateful for the cloak she’d purchased in Cumberland before they’d left the city for rumors and whispers of forgotten elven ruins.

Before she’d begun traveling with Morrigan, Velahari had still been at Skyhold: clinging to the familiar after Corypheus’s defeat and what followed. It became more apparent as time wore on that such a solution couldn't be permanent; she’d traveled to close rifts as needed, though it felt as though the Inquisition had become aimless: a powerhouse with no goal to direct its energy toward, and there were those who argued they dabble in politics, in the affairs of nations and the whole of Thedas, but Velahari had not wanted to turn the Inquisition political. She had been among the minority, however, and no amount of convincing from Leliana or Vivienne or Cassandra could sway her despite the good they claimed they could do.

And so Velahari had left the Inquisition: lips a perpetual sad smile and with a jaded expression that spoke of weariness more than anything. She had not quite managed to forget; perhaps she didn’t want to or simply  _couldn’t_ , but the fact remained that it drained her more than she anticipated, and she needed a change of surroundings. The thought that her clan would not welcome her after losing her vallaslin – though perhaps  _giving up_  her vallaslin was a more apt phrase – was not one that occurred to her until she was at the Waking Sea, boarding a ship bound for the Free Marches where Clan Lavellan surely remained.

Such a notion was promptly trod underfoot the moment she caught sight of the aravels, heard the halla baying in their pens where they grazed; bows were at the ready, arrows notched and pointed in her direction when she came within sight of the clan’s hunters. “Lethallan?” One of the hunters dared to speak to her first, his tone nothing but disbelief.

“Deythan.” Velahari breathed easier when his bow first lowered, though it took a moment for the others to do so. She could see the suspicion in their eyes: she’d been paraded about the known world as the  _Herald of Andraste_ , had led a group seen as an arm of the human Chantry, and now, her vallaslin was curiously  _gone_. Part of her was unsurprised, though she could name all of them who’d just now held arrows pointed at her breast – and not for the first time that very day, pain stabbed at her heart.

Every eye in the camp was trained on her as she was  _escorted_  to the Keeper, and even then, Velahari began to wonder if this had been a folly of an idea. “Da’len.” The Keeper’s tone was warm, even if her eyes were narrowed, and Velahari gave her a half-smile and an incline of her head in greeting before the Keeper gestured for the hunters to leave them. For a moment, there was simply silence; Velahari struggled to find words to explain, and the Keeper could only watch her, head angled and eyes impossibly sorrowful for reasons Velahari couldn’t even begin to understand. “What have you done, Da’len?” she asked, her tone clearly pained as her hand lifted to Velahari’s face – never touching, though her fingertips moved minutely as though tracing the vallaslin that had previously been there.

“Keeper,” she began, still fumbling with her words. “There is…so much we don’t understand. About  _us_ : our culture and gods, our  _history_.” Whatever anguish and pity there had been in the Keeper’s eyes evaporated as readily as a puddle under the scorching sun; her expression hardened, though she didn’t interrupt – not just yet. “We pass down all of our stories, but they've become twisted over the centuries. Please. Tell me you want to know the truth of our history just as much as I do.” Velahari spoke as softly as she dared, though there was iron there too: she’d seen too much,  _learned_  too much from the Inquisition to simply forget everything and return to her old ways with the Dalish.

“And how were you made aware of these things, Da’len?” The Keeper sounded skeptical, and Velahari couldn’t rightly blame her for it; the explanation in her own mind sounded weak, however, and she faltered again: not from lack of confidence, but for lack of desire to confront and antagonize an old friend and mentor.

“In my travels, I came upon an…apostate. He…had experience in the Fade.” Saying his name, even  _thinking_  it at times was simply too painful, though the Keeper didn’t appear terribly sympathetic to whatever inner turmoil Velahari was countenancing at the moment. “He searches the Fade for long-forgotten memories, pieces of history clinging to bloody towers or battlefields.”

“And what of your vallaslin, Da’len?”

Velahari’s gaze turned from the Keeper’s, and for a long while, silence was her reply: an answer Velahari was not unwilling to give, but unwilling to inflict. Whatever spell had been used to remove hers was one she did not know, and even then, it was unlikely any of the Dalish would listen to her over what they’d been taught to know. “The vallaslin are no better than brands for slaves. Elves enslaved their  _own_ , Keeper. The humans didn’t destroy our empire: we did it to  _ourselves_.”

The Keeper’s eyes inflamed with an anger Velahari had never seen before, and if before she’d been uncertain whether she would remain, she was not any longer. “You will be permitted to gather your things and leave us peaceably,” the Keeper spoke tersely, arms crossed tightly under her chest. “You are no longer welcome in our clan, and neither will you bear the name Lavellan any longer.” With that, the Keeper slipped out of the tent and left Velahari alone in her grief, her shame; despite the hold her teeth had on her bottom lip, hot tears streamed down her cheeks.

Fists clenched at her sides, her jaw tightened, and she squeezed her eyes shut: she would  _not_  show her clan weakness; Velahari Lavellan was dead now, and in truth, she felt more like a drifting wanderer with no origin, no home, and indeed no name. Returning to the Inquisition was decidedly  _not_  an option, and by the time she stepped out of the tent, her face a neutral mask, she did not linger in the camp.

The night air was cold, and in truth, Velahari felt only like curling into the side of a boulder with no fire, no light: simply to be alone with her grief, and her keen understanding that she belonged absolutely nowhere in this world now.

“Why are you crying?”

The voice startled her when she heard it, and green eyes widened as she lifted her head; a girl, no older than seven, stood across from her with a concerned expression. Pointed ears gave away her identity as an elf, and Velahari gave a cursory look past the girl to discern if she was alone. Her clothing was simple: pieces of leather and cloth that looked strikingly familiar…

“Are you…with the Dalish?” Velahari murmured quietly, and the girl nodded enthusiastically. Her blue eyes sparkled in the moonlight, though her solitary nature belied the truth: why would the Dalish let a little girl wander the forests alone at night? It was then that Velahari realized: the child hummed with a familiar feeling, and Velahari stood slowly, lips parting. “You…have magic?” The girl promptly blushed and nodded sheepishly.

“I’m not very good yet, but the Keeper says I’ll learn more really soon!”

“Where is your clan?” Velahari then asked, only then making an attempt to smile – how long it had been since last she had, she couldn’t rightly remember. “Do you need any help getting back to them?” The girl nodded, as naïve as Velahari herself had been at that age, and welcomed the aid enthusiastically.

Wolves howled and owls hooted in the trees as they traveled, the girl content to chatter quietly about how she enjoyed watching the halla, or running errands for the hahren to fetch supplies from the Keeper for their stock of goods. “Nadelas!” she finally declared, and Velahari blinked once before looking over at her, a red eyebrow curling upwards. “That’s my name,” she added, and Velahari nodded at the information, her smile soft though just a bit dazed. After several hours, however, Velahari could see the girl’s enthusiasm begin to disappear. The clearing they’d initially found had been long abandoned, and though at first she’d seemed disheartened, she’d somehow convinced herself that she’d gone the wrong way, and that they’d find her clan eventually.

By the time the sun began to peek over the horizon, however, the girl was on the verge of tears. “They-they wouldn't just  _leave_  me!” she insisted, though when she dropped to her knees and made no attempt to hide her sobbing, Velahari’s heart broke even further – a feat, truly.

“The Dalish – they’re not what they seem, Da’len,” Velahari murmured quietly, fingertips stroking honey-blond hair, though her statement did nothing to ease the child’s sorrow. She couldn’t explain the circumstances: the girl was hurting already, and she didn’t care to add more to the pile if she could at all help it.

It took a long while before Nadelas calmed down, and then, her exhaustion finally caught up with her; Velahari had gained a great deal of stamina from working with the Inquisition, though even she couldn’t continue – not right then. She cast a few wards to keep those who would harm them away, and fell into a fitful slumber that would afford her no great energy when she awoke.

Such was how Velahari came to have a ward: a child whom she came to care for, whom she could teach magic and the  _truth_  of her heritage. And for the most part, Nadelas was an apt student; her eagerness was overwhelming at times, but it was admittedly a comfort to have someone smile at her, to never speak in half-truths… Sometimes, Velahari wondered if the girl somehow  _knew_. Occasionally, when Velahari would look up from gutting a fish or skinning a hare, Nadelas would be looking at her with as soft and anguished an expression as Velahari herself wore when thinking of Solas. Nadelas never pried, though; she would simply smile and make a joke, and all would be well.

Wandering aimlessly swiftly lost its appeal, however; perhaps it was because she knew what it was to move and act with a clear goal in mind, and now that the goal was gone, she felt as though nothing she did had any meaning whatsoever.  _If that were true, then Nadelas would be dead: devoured by a bear or slain by humans on the side of the road._ The pair of them never spoke of the night they’d met; Nadelas’s curiosity never stretched to that painful part of her life, and perhaps one day she would ask, but Velahari would remain quiet about it until that day came. It was no easy thing to explain that her mere existence in the clan had put them in danger, and that they’d sacrificed her to keep everyone else safe.

It was perhaps a month or so after Nadelas and Velahari found each other that Morrigan appeared, flanked by Kieran and with as grave an expression on her face as Velahari had ever seen. “Morrigan,” Velahari greeted, though there was confusion written across the wrinkles of her brow, in the lines of her eyebrows as they drew together. The witch’s eyes scanned over Nadelas curiously, though she made no inquiry – not yet; she wanted to speak privately first and foremost, and after that, they could have proper introductions. “Nadelas, this is Kieran. He’s a friend. I need to talk with Morrigan for a few minutes, all right?” The blonde nodded her understanding, and it lightened Velahari’s heart to see Kieran and Nadelas take to each other almost instantly.

“It must be important for you to track me down,” Velahari began, and the serious expression in Morrigan’s eerie yellow eyes was all the response she needed. “I would say that this is about the Inquisition wanting me to return…but you were gone before I left, and I doubt they could find you and convince you to do this.” Morrigan huffed out a sarcastic laugh at that.

“While I have no doubt the Inquisition is keenly feeling your departure, that is not the reason I come to you now, Inquis-” Morrigan promptly stopped, her lips twisting into a frown. Velahari was no longer Inquisitor. “What should I call you, now that you are no longer the Inquisitor?” Her frown disappeared beneath a small, subdued smile, and Velahari felt an unpleasant ache in the hollow of her chest at the reminder of her lack of any real identity.

“Velahari is my name, Morrigan. I would prefer you use it from now on.” Morrigan inclined her head once in understanding.

“You’ll recall what transpired at the Well of Sorrows? I drank from the Well, and in so doing became linked to Mythal – Flemeth – for all time, yes?” Velahari nodded, and it was then that Morrigan paused, her gaze diverting before she pressed onward. “It is my understanding that your former companion, the elf who called himself Solas, disappeared the moment Corypheus was defeated, yes?” The reminder made her heart ache, and she breathed deeply to keep her composure before nodding.

“What I am about to tell you, I tell you in the strictest confidence. My link to Mythal has been…severed, or at the very least, disrupted.” The knowledge made Velahari uneasy, and a lack of understanding contorted her face into one of disbelief. “Before this occurred, I was able to glimpse what I can only understand were Mythal’s final moments.” It was here,  _again_ , that Morrigan paused, and Velahari noticed the obvious: she had mentioned Solas before diving into her story, and as of yet, her story had not contained his presence.

“Please, Morrigan. Just get on with it.”

“The elf greeted Mythal in the Fade, Velahari. They knew each other well, and Flemeth – she – referred to him as…the dread wolf. The orb Corypheus carried was his, and he foolishly handed it over to the magister to unlock its powers which he presumably could not do by himself. As for the why or how, I cannot say. He..absorbed her essence, and that was all I saw of them. I have not felt Mythal’s link tugging at me in some time, and the voices from the Well of Sorrows have all but quieted. If I strain, I can hear near-silent whispers, but even then, I cannot make out anything useful.”

For a moment, the words floated across Velahari’s skin like invisible fingertips: probing and insistent and unpredictable; her breath remained caught in her throat, and she seriously considered accusing Morrigan of lying. Morrigan had never  _lied_  to her, though: she’d left out details, certainly, but her motivations were one thing she had always been incredibly up-front about, unlike a certain someone else who inflamed her heart with a simultaneous fury and a love so tender she could scarcely breathe at all. It was not a feeling she could describe, though Morrigan could see the distress in her face and offered what she considered a sympathetic expression.

“I…I need to be alone for a while,” Velahari finally murmured, and though Morrigan turned in the direction she fled, the witch did not follow: merely watched with thoughtful, saddened eyes and pursed lips.

She wasn’t certain how far she’d gone, but her legs eventually gave way until she landed harshly on the ground, half-frozen from the onset of winter and wholly unforgiving on her knees; her hands balled into fists, and the tears came at long last – there was no holding them back, not now. Velahari had always known intuitively that he’d held things back from her, either because he was just a private person or because he was ashamed, but something of this magnitude? She hadn't seen it coming, and her heart seized: as though a hand had somehow gotten hold of it and squeezed mercilessly.

Despite the cold air, she felt as though she were on fire: a side effect of emotions, certainly, and her anguished cry echoed amidst the trees. How could he have hidden something like this from her? How many _times_  had she proven they were on the same side? The taste in her mouth soured as bitterness drew her lips into a deep scowl, but even then tears poured down her cheeks; she wanted to hate him, wanted to hate his deception and his defection and the considerable  _ease_  he’d had while doing so.

Nothing in her was capable of hating him though. He’d opened her eyes, had exposed a world of truths and possibilities to her, and it was not something she could simply forsake because of this revelation. A crazed laugh billowed from her lips then; how ironic it would be to return to her clan and inform her keeper that the apostate who’d told her all this had been none other than  _Fen’Harel_  himself! She could have laughed at how foolish she’d been, at how blindly she’d walked forward, but memories of him came to her instead: proving that, just as he’d said when they saw that the orb was destroyed,  _what we had was real_.

And in the wake of such a realization came the harsher pain, the agonizing gasping for breath like that of a fish left to asphyxiate on the seashore, the inability to  _arrange_ her thoughts properly and into some semblance of coherency, the exhaustive emotional toll that made her want to do little more than curl up on the cold ground and drift off to sleep – even if wisps of him would torment her dreams. Eventually, she steeled her jaw, and used her fists to push herself upwards until she sat on her legs; pale cheeks were stained red, green eyes bloodshot, but she did manage to stand and breathe, and that was progress.

Velahari took considerable time returning to the small camp, though she could sense all the magic in the area: Morrigan’s was both bright and dark, almost menacing if Velahari hadn't known better, while both Kieran’s and Nadelas’s were mere pinpricks of energy: though no doubt that would change given time to practice their abilities. Morrigan was tending to the fire when Velahari emerged from between a narrow copse of pine trees, and her yellow eyes were easy to pick out amidst the darkness surrounding them. “There is more, Velahari,” she began, though her gaze swiftly cut across to where Nadelas dozed, and Kieran poorly pretended not to be listening.

“There always is,” Velahari replied, tone marred with sarcasm and a dark sort of anticipation that made her wring her hands together. Morrigan chuckled quietly, though stood from where she’d taken a seat on a felled log – it had been struck by lightning, if the scorched marks around its base were any indication.

The pair didn’t wander far from camp, and Velahari was wholly unsurprised that Morrigan positioned herself in such a way so that her eyes could always just see Kieran over the elf’s shoulder. “When I first realized what occurred, I… _attempted_  to find your former companion,” Morrigan revealed, yellow eyes meeting green. “Much like Leliana, however, I have not made progress. He has traveled West, but further than that, I cannot say.” There was a tacit implication in the witch’s words, however, and Velahari had interacted with enough politicians to catch it.

“Which is why you came to me,” Velahari answered easily. To her credit, Morrigan looked somewhat guilty before replying.

“Tell me you do not wish to find him and question him for yourself, and I will leave you to…whatever it is you plan to do next.” Her tone had taken on a steely quality, yellow eyes flashing dangerously like a bird of prey about to swoop down on its dinner, though Velahari could appreciate the gesture for what it was. Morrigan wanted something Velahari could aid her in considerably, but she wouldn't force the issue – not if it was something Velahari herself didn’t want.

“What makes you think I can help? I've not seen him since Corypheus was defeated,” Velahari replied, still unsure of her own desires. Of course she  _wanted_  to see him, but there was no guarantee they’d ever truly find him, or that once they did, the meeting would end well.

“You have more at your disposal than you believe,” Morrigan replied silkily, her smile widening into a knowing smirk. “ _This_ ,” she began, her hand reaching for Velahari’s wrist until she pulled it between them. Velahari reflexively opened her palm, slivers and ethereal tendrils of green wisps of energy glowing almost ominously. “Is the key. Remember that the orb originally came from him, not Corypheus. Thus, your Anchor, bestowed upon you by the orb, is linked to him, just as the orb was.”

“Which means I can find him.” Velahari’s tone had become breathless, disbelieving, though Morrigan nodded sagely before gently dropping the elf’s wrist.

“It is your choice, however, Velahari. If you do not wish to aid me, I will search alone. I think it would…behoove you to join me, though I would certainly understand if you do not.” Velahari nodded her understanding, and the two of them returned to camp where Kieran himself had begun dozing, his quiet snores almost comforting. When Velahari had first left the Inquisition, she’d been alone; it was a pleasant change to have others around, even if her solitary departure had been of her own design.

It hadn't taken Velahari terribly long to make up her mind; she’d weighed the options against each other in her mind, but ultimately, she wanted an explanation, or at the very least, an  _apology_  for all the lies and half-truths. Even if she could understand the necessity of such things, she felt it was something she deserved of him after he’d so abruptly cut off all ties and fled.

Their journeys crossed countries and continents: gleaning scraps of information about these curious elven orbs, about possible links to the Fade, and yet more lore concerning the eluvian which, Morrigan assured her, was in a safe place until they had need of it –  _if_  they ever had need of it. Some days were more frustrating than others, and finding anything remotely useful was akin to finding a perfect gemstone amidst rocks and rubble in the Deep Roads, though some proved useful: offering locations for other temples or ruins, inscriptions that time had not quite managed to wear away yet, or even some ancient, magically-preserved texts hidden behind multiple magical barriers to keep prying eyes from finding them and using them for presumably nefarious ends.

Such was how she and the others came to be in another ruined temple, though Velahari could tell from the first few glimpses of it that it was more than it appeared; they’d come to discover that the Tevinters didn’t convert just any abandoned elven sites or temples: they chose those with the most complex magics woven into them, and it was a veritable  _haze_  as they approached this particular one. Velahari had pressed on ahead as she was wont to do while Morrigan helped the younger ones prepare a camp that wouldn't disturb the temple’s wards – an unpleasant discovery they’d found in earlier temples with magic still active.

Former companions from the Inquisition had certainly reached out to her, even attempted to go after her, though once she’d begun sending letters to reassure everyone of her health and well-being, they stopped worrying so much – though Velahari could still see traces of Leliana’s spies following after her when she cared to look. Even after becoming Divine, Leliana was concerned for her welfare; it might have been humbling, had Velahari believed in Andraste and the Maker. As it was, she could appreciate it, even if occasionally it was frustrating.

Velahari directed her attention back to the massive stone wolf carved in great detail, however;  _Fen’Harel_. The great trickster of legend, so the Dalish called him, and yet, reconciling those beliefs of him and the man he’d called Solas was no small or easy task. This was apparently a sanctuary for the Dread Wolf: forgotten by the Dalish, or perhaps purposefully tossed aside as rumors and dark stories of him finally circulated and painted him as the obvious villain in the disappearance of the elven gods. That the ancient Tevinters had deigned to convert his shrine to one for their Old God Zazikel was curious, though only just; perhaps they knew of Fen’Harel, and likened him in some fashion to Zazikel who was a paradigm of chaos: alike in some regard to rebellion and fanciful deception for such a purpose.

Mosaics were faded along the walls that hadn't completely crumbled, and Velahari didn’t have to peer too close to see the resemblance; she’d seen similar ones in Skyhold, and now she knew why. Her time spent searching had hardened her, jaded her in a way her naïve, younger self likely wouldn't have been able to identify when the Breach had first opened the heavens and let loose hordes of demons upon the unsuspecting world. She wasn’t wholly changed, but two years affected a person, and she and Morrigan had not shared many victories since joining their efforts.

The sudden presence of another meant little to her: likely Morrigan or one of the children come to fetch her, but when she turned, she found rather abruptly frozen. His hands were hidden behind the small of his back, undoubtedly tucked together, and the expression he wore was almost too painful to gaze upon for long, but Velahari forced herself despite the agony ripping at her heart and bidding her to approach and envelop him in her arms. “Did you watch?” she finally spoke, blue eyes sliding up to meet her green ones, though she saw several questions in them when she cared to look deeper.

“Did you watch when my clan cast me away? I know you've been watching – furtively, perhaps, but I've become more…perceptive in my dreams. I know when I’m being…observed.” She kept her tone an even, neutral sound, though that was difficult, and only becoming more so as he lingered; part of her truly wondered if this were an hallucination borne of frustration and impatience.

“I did not mean to intrude.” It wasn’t quite an apology, though it had an apologetic tone, accentuated with a small frown.

“Of course not,” Velahari replied. “Then I would have more readily noticed your presence.” The last part was spoken more harshly than she intended, though it pleased her to see him wince – he never seemed to do so, and she needed constant reminders at how human he remained, given what she now knew of him. “What I don’t understand is why you bothered. I was under the impression you weren't coming back.”

“I…hadn't intended to,” he admitted, sorrow suffusing his tone as his gaze noticeably dropped.

“Well, that makes everything all better then.” His expression hardened when he finally looked at her again, and though part of her didn’t want to say these things to him, she couldn’t stop herself: had bottled up two years worth of hurt and anger and desperation and his appearance had uncorked everything until it threatened to overflow. “You never let anyone help you, Solas. That’s your flaw – you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. I've  _known_  that weight.” The look they shared then  _seared_  worse than any burn or fire Velahari had ever felt, and her heart pounded against her ribs, just as readily as it had when they’d still been a part of the Inquisition.

The pregnant silence was interrupted, however, when the sounds of a few pebbles scattering drew attention from the pair of them; Velahari half-expected Morrigan, though it was Nadelas who stumbled closer, her long, blond hair plaited and tossed over her shoulder and well-fitting leathers shielding her from the elements. “ _Mamae_ ,” she called, though she apparently hadn't seen Solas yet – Velahari had likely been standing in the perfect angle to shield him from view.

“Go back to the camp, Dela. I’ll be along shortly.” Nadelas nodded with a bright smile, though paused when she caught sight of Solas out of the corner of her eye. She waved cheerily, and thought nothing of leaving them alone; not for the first time since taking the young mage under her wing Velahari thought her still too naïve, even after the circumstances of their meeting.

“ _Mamae_?” Velahari had never heard this particular tone from Solas before, and when she turned back to him, his eyes were narrowed – suspicion perhaps, or maybe jealousy? It was ludicrous to see him wear such a thing, especially after such a prolonged time apart that  _he’d_ forced between them.

Instead of rising to the bait and allowing his terse word to anger her, Velahari instead offered him a sad smile; “She was…turned out by a Dalish clan. I found her wandering the forests alone. If I hadn't intervened, she would have been killed by bandits or bears. I couldn’t just…leave her there.”

“You…saw kinship with her,” Solas remarked, almost as though the idea was just occurring to him with the revelation that Velahari was no longer part of the Lavellan clan. The bittersweet yet ever-thoughtful expression returned to his face, and it was then, again, that Velahari felt the keen desire to go to him, embrace him, and refuse to let go.  _The exiled Dalish mage takes in yet another unwanted Dalish mage_. He didn’t need to say it: it hovered over them as obvious as a garish, red banner. “You really haven’t changed.” Her eyes snapped up to meet his, and for a moment, she wondered if she ought to take it as an insult; before she ever had the opportunity to decide how to react, however, Morrigan swept into the shrine, expression a deep scowl and magic sizzling audibly in her palm.

“ _You_.” Morrigan spat the word at Solas’s feet, and the darkness in her expression was mirrored in his own: though not so obviously. The pair of them had never gotten on, though Velahari would intervene if things turned to violence – there was no need for it.

“Witch,” he returned, eyes lowering and tone darkening.

“Dread Wolf. You  _gave_  your orb to Corypheus – the  _Blights_  and the Breach can all be laid at your feet, and you  _hide._  For what purpose? Does the great  _trickster_  have another plan up his sleeve that spells doom for the rest of the world yet again?” Morrigan demanded, though Solas had lost his anger: had even started to discolor, and it didn’t take Velahari long to realize why. Morrigan had revealed her knowledge of his true identity where Velahari herself never had; instead of turning to Morrigan to answer her questions, however, he was gauging her: was finally coming to the conclusion that she  _knew_ , and…it had been yet another test he’d failed.

“Morrigan,” Velahari murmured, and though Morrigan turned her anger towards Velahari, it didn’t last. She lost whatever fire had driven her to lash out at Solas, and inclined her head with a huff before turning from them – though not before looking back at Solas.

“Tread carefully, Dread Wolf. Nothing in this world or the next will save you from my wrath if my friend has to endure another moment in  _agony_  over  _you_.” Before that moment, Velahari might have found herself embarrassed at the threat, though she and Morrigan had grown close over their travels, and the respect and friendship was mutual: Morrigan was a better sister than anyone she’d ever had in her clan.

Solas undoubtedly wanted to address Morrigan’s parting words, though something else obviously weighed on his mind first; “You knew, yet did not mention it. Why? Are the Dalish not taught about how very terrible I am? That I tricked our gods into sealing themselves away?”

“I’ll admit, I was…upset when I first found out, but after everything we've done in the Inquisition, after all I've learned and everything I've been exposed to – I can’t take stories at face value anymore. The Dalish turned me away for daring to believe differently than they do, and it speaks volumes about them. What I’m waiting to hear is whether or not  _my_  beliefs peg me as the most ridiculous fool ever to walk Thedas, or an open-minded mage who has no place in it anymore.”

Somehow, her words felt like a confession, and the silence that resounded afterwards felt akin to a vice around her heart that closed in further every second Solas kept his silence. “I have no words of comfort to offer,” he finally replied, exhausted and exasperated, and anger swiftly overtook the excruciating pain that threatened to rip what remained of her heart to shreds.

“I suppose I was wrong, then,” Velahari finally intoned, green eyes venomous as her jaw set and her fingertips pressed into the soft skin of her arms. “You aren’t a wolf at all – you’re a  _snake_ ,  _hiding_  instead of –”

The kiss was feral, savage in a way she’d never before encountered; his hands gripped her upper arms, presumably to keep her from moving away, though once it connected, she was lost. A hum that could have been a muffled growl rumbled against her lips from him, and as before, his arms slipped around her, holding tightly as though he were afraid she might simply… _dissolve_ where she stood. One of her hands slithered up his shoulder until it rested where his neck flared to the back of his skull, fingertips spreading and pressing tightly until there was nothing between them: two years of going without had made her desperate, and she had no qualms with demonstrating just  _how_ desperate.

“This is foolish,” Solas breathed harshly, their foreheads pressing together as his warm breathed ghosted across her cheeks.

“So you keep saying, but if you think I’m going to stop, you’re sorely mistaken.” The light in his eyes lifted an unknown burden from her, and she was the one to initiate the next kiss: just as heated and passionate as its predecessor, though she gasped quietly when teeth bit harshly into her bottom lip.

“A wolf cannot be tamed, Vhenan,” he murmured against her ear, and truly, she didn’t need to pull back and look at him to see the smirk he wore.

“Perhaps my goal is  _not_  to tame,” Velahari replied breathlessly, and for half a moment, she could have believed that they were back in Skyhold: before he’d taken away her vallaslin, and subsequently informed her they could no longer be together. “Tell me honestly,” she finally murmured, refusing to pull her arms away if he decided to leave before answering her questions. “What now? You keep insisting the road you walk is for you and only you, but if you’re trying to-to  _rectify_ what happened, I want to help. No more secrets, no more lies or half-truths.”

She hadn’t intended it to sound like an ultimatum, though there was no denying the subtle stiffness in his shoulders, even as his arms remained around her. “You do not know what you ask.” There was frustration in his tone, stubbornness, but a desperate little tinge that at the very least betrayed he’d  _considered_  doing so since their original parting. “I have never once deviated from my path, my goal; even the Inquisition was a means to an end.” Had such a thought not first occurred to Velahari, she might have been hurt by such a matter-of-fact statement; the Inquisition had ultimately led him to the shattered remains of his orb, however, and when he realized it could never be salvaged or repaired, he’d vanished.

“And I  _have_  no path. No goal.” Part of her sincerely doubted he’d ever budge from his initial position that his was a path to be trod alone, though she could hope, however in vain.

“The former Inquisitor will always be capable of finding a purpose: of helping those displaced by the civil war or closing rifts.” It was a fair point, she supposed, though such things never ended, and though they certainly impacted those immediately affected, they left no real,  _lasting_  changes upon the world.

“You…really don’t want me to join you.” It was a sad realization, and Velahari’s eyes shut despite herself; perhaps…she was fighting a losing battle, and it had taken her more than two years to even realize…

“I would inflict this upon no one, least of all you. Please, do not ask it of me – you will not thank me for it.” A sad silence followed, though neither pulled away; “Being apart from you is…more difficult than I anticipated, nearly more than I can bear. Perhaps that is why I looked in on your dreams: I could not keep myself away, no matter how I tried.” His words little helped; he claimed he could only achieve his objective alone, yet now he went on about his loneliness?

“Then doesn't that prove my point?” Her rhetorical question was not so much smug as it was insistent, though when she looked up at his face, his eyes were turned away, down-turned from shame or exasperation. “If you weren't so  _stubborn_ , you’d see that you’re not alone anymore. I don’t claim to know how long you've searched for a solution, but having aid from others might actually work, if you cared to give it a try.”

“You still have such optimism, such faith in me.” It was clear from his tone he didn’t understand, truly didn’t know  _how_  that hadn’t died from their separation alone, never mind his true identity or the extent of his mistakes. His eyes closed, expression yearning and pained in equal measure; “I doubt my strength to resist, Vhenan. Please, don’t persist in your temptations.”

“Solas-”

“No.” His reply interrupted whatever Velahari had been about to say; “Solas was a moniker I used to remind myself of my purpose whenever I felt as though I might falter. A constant failure I couldn’t afford to let happen again. It is not my name.” He didn’t need to tell her: she knew, and had known for a long while now, though using it was another matter; would it roll off her tongue in a harsh curse as it did for so many of the Dalish she knew, would it ring similarly with the tenderness she’d used to address him, or would it be wholly unchanged? A name was but a name, and while it was true she knew only little of him as a person, his background or facets of himself he had never had the daring to show her, she doubted even someone as renowned for guile as Fen’Harel himself could have possessed a face so dissimilar to the one he’d used during the Inquisition. Was it not wise to hide in plain sight: to appear as close to oneself as possible without giving away the sordid details that would paint one in an unbecoming or hostile light?

It was apparent he didn’t expect her to utter his true name, though Velahari had made a rather genuine attempt at defying his expectations ever since the Inquisition's inception. “Fen’Harel.” The hand previously on the back of his neck slipped down his jaw, cupping the side of his face and turning it gently until she caught his eyes. Despite all the pain, all the agonizing torment that had stripped away every happy thought from her in the past two years, she still loved him, and there was no doubt in her mind that she’d ever stop. She would help him fix his mistakes, and they would be together, come what may.

“I love you.” Velahari felt a fair bit more confident saying so now, as opposed to when he’d tried to drive her away, and the kiss that followed was somehow tender and forceful all at once.

“You will not take no for an answer, I fear.” His lips just barely touched the skin of her cheek as he spoke, and she shook her head with a mostly-silent chuckle.

“You have marked me, in more ways than one. We are bound, and even if we were not, I couldn’t let myself watch you walk away. Not again.  _Never_  again.” Her left band balled into a tight fist, the Anchor pulsing a bit more noticeably than normal – or perhaps it was simply the strong surge of emotions that even pricked the corners of her eyes.

She looked past the look on his face, past the slight uncertainty and discomfort, and instead focused on the light in his eyes: as though she’d managed to lift some of the burden he’d carried for so many years in stoic silence. “It will be dangerous, Vhenan, but in this I will not fail. You will be safe, and together, we will do what I alone could not.” Her smile was watery, and she fought to keep her lips from trembling, though his quiet laugh caught her off guard. “There is no need to cry, Vhenan. Ar lath ma.”

**Author's Note:**

> Be very grateful I didn’t have Velahari wake up at the end - it was very tempting. I suppose I needed some sap for this romance though, considering how it ends in canon.


End file.
